Everything is lost
by Sinitar
Summary: A cell. That's what Eragon's life has been reduced to after he refused to swear a vow in the Ancient Language. Trapped in that world of darkness, hunger and pain, all that keeps Eragon sane is the hope of being reunited with his mate, Arya.
1. Chapter 1

**Inspiration hit me and I wanted to have a second take at a more unusual ExA story. This one is a bit darker than When Everything seems lost, but also more rewarding in terms of ExA development when it gets there. As with the first story, I develop the plot as I go, so I can't answer every question right now. Just follow the story and enjoy :)**

He awoke to the clang of metal against metal. Meal time already? Eragon cracked an eye open. A dark silhouette stood by the iron bars of his cell, banging a short metal spoon between them. Eragon groaned. His bruised back ached worse and worse, and the torches outside his cell already consumed themselves to smolders. How long did he sleep?

The clatter stopped. "Food, my lord Shadeslayer," Spoons said. He pushed the bowl through the tiny rectangle carved at the bottom of the grates, spat on its contents, and left.

Spoons always did that. At least his presence answered one of Eragon's questions. It was midday, and he slept more than necessary.

"Haven't lost your wits yet?" Jarl one-eye whispered from the cell opposite to his. The gloom hid his features, but his body probably became as frail as his voice. Eragon shook his head, more to himself than to the poor blind wretch.

"Won't be long until you do. Empire cells do this to every man, elf and Rider."

"Spoons too," Eragon rasped. He wet his parched throat with whatever moisture dwelled in his mouth. "I can't do it anymore Jarl."

"You have to! Put aside body pain, put aside mind pain, and starve for a couple of days so you can feast for a lifetime." Eragon imagined him clutching the bars to his cells as if his life depended on it. He always did that, poor blind Jarl. Always hoped today will be the day.

"Not today," Eragon said. Fever still corrupted his body, and his guts twisted whenever Spoons brought him his meal of spit and porridge. He tried skipping a meal or two at Jarl's request, but that night was dark and full of terrors. The potion the mages slipped in his food did more than suppress his connection to magic. It tore at his insides, again and again, until he ate the tainted food. Never again, Eragon had vowed.

And today, he kept his word.

He slid out of his stone carved cot. Cold sludge embraced his feet as he shuffled towards the bowl, his teeth gritted to prevent a whimper from escaping.

"You fool. Craven, pitiful fool," Jarl whined. Eragon ignored him. The bowl and its contents. That's what mattered. While he stuffed the tasteless porridge into his mouth and gnawed on the stringy meat, he listened to Jarl's mantra.

"You wait to be saved. Nobody will saved you. Nobody, nobody, nobody. The New Empire has everything. Grand Mage Trianna of a thousand hearts. King Murtagh, who knows the One Word, and Queen Nasuada, conqueror of Alagaesia. What do you have, dear boy? What, what what?"

_Love, _Eragon wanted to say, but food tasted better than words. Once he finished the cold meal, Eragon tossed the bowl in the rat corner and picked the pointy stick he found under the cot. Its owner must have been a rat hunter, for the wood was slim and long enough to act as a spear.

"Shush," Eragon said, and Jarl spoke no more.

They waited in utter silence, Jarl probably twiddling his thumbs and Eragon staring at the food bowl intently. A squeak. Several squeaks. Then a rock of the bowl. Eragon thrust his spear forward. The squeaking stopped.

"Caught it?" Jarl asked.

"Aye."

"Throw it here boy. Don't let them drop it into that vile porridge. It's the only clean food we have. The only way to escape."

Tears wet the corner of Eragon's eyes as he removed the rat from its skewer. No meat meant a less consistent meal, and a less consistent meal lead to a sleepless night of pain.

He threw it across the narrow corridor into Jarl's cell.

"Good boy, brave boy," Jarl said.

Eragon sighed. He lay down on his hard cot to ponder, but all he could think of was pain. The potion clouded his mind, made his very meat seethe, and gave him no moment of respite. Yet, amidst turmoil, there was always peace.

Arya. She was his solace. Thinking about her meant leaving that world of pain behind. He tried to do so now by muttering his prayer.

"Where is she now? Still with Orrin and his rebels? How long until she's here? How much does she want to be here?" The last question hurt more than the occasional spasm of a muscle. Time eroded everything, just like the potion eroded his bond with his dragon.

Eragon turned on his side, an arm placed under his cheek. He had a dragon once, didn't he? Called…how was it called? He closed his eyes and focused on the void—the same void that suppressed his magic— but no answer came to surface.

Muffled footsteps interrupted his musings. Eragon brought his knees to his chest, his usual sleeping position. Nobody bothered him if they thought he slept.

Two set of foosteps. No. Three. Two jarring, metallic ones and one soft. Leather, most likely. They grew in intensity until they rang in front of Eragon's cell.

"Meal time?" Jarl asked.

"Thought this cell was empty," one man replied in a gruff voice.

"It is now."

The door screeched and clang when it hit the wall.

"What's this, wha—" Eragon bit his lip so hard he drew blood when he heard a gurgle as metal pierced flesh. A thump followed.

"Your new home, Lord Jormundur." Another thump, followed by a groan and a yelp of pain. "I trust you'll enjoy the comfort of your new quarters."

Eragon didn't notice when they left. He didn't know if the man spoke or not. For him, hope died with Jarl one-eyed.


	2. Love

**Author's Note: I'm so sorry for delaying so much with this story, guys.I hope the wait was worth it, as I have a couple of chapters ready for this story.  
**

**First and foremost, I felt the need to change the story's rating to M to reflect the stark reality of this world and characters. This is not a happy story about Mary sue living with Gary stu in a perfect world of theirs. A lot of fanfics do that, and I don't really agree with it. What's the point of having a story where every character gets what it wants? So, to put it in a nutshell, there will be mature content/words from now on. I won't have explicit love scenes or anything over the top, but as you will see in this chapter, the lovemaking scene between Murtagh and Nasuada shows how their relationship works: It's based on duty, not love. Hope you'll like it as much as I liked writing it. **

The sun turned to a shade of crimson, much like Thorn's scales, when a door creaked. Murtagh paid it no mind. His thoughts flew somewhere, under that ruddy sun, to a time when freedom meant nothing more than the bowels of a chamber. How strange it was. Accommodations came in as many forms as the scattered clouds he looked at. There were rooms for guests, for families, for kings and urchins alike. Murtagh knew them all. His modest bed-and-privy chamber where bottle smashed against stone during one of his father's fits. The damp cell of the empire, where Thorn's head poked from beneath the ruby shell. The king's room, where words and oaths meant more than the lavish decorations and the dragons carved into the stone.

And now, this. Some fancy quarter where nobles rested their arses and enlarged their girths. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. Walls were constricting an allowed no air to enter.

It was so hot.

Murtagh turned to the nearest table and refreshed himself with whatever the silver flagon held in its belly. The drink was warm and bitter, much like his thoughts. Why was Nasuada delaying her arrival? What conflicts were pondered at that table? Why was he here? Paintings and dead animals offered no companionship, wood and stone no words or solace.

The liquid ceased its stream. Murtagh nibbled on the steel, thought for a bit, then kissed the table with the bottom of the flagon. The metal protested in the same way a sword would. Steel…Murtagh knew how to wield it. He had quick arms and fleet feet and a cunning mind, yet the tip of the arrow was nothing without the shaft. Peace was confusing and purposeless. Murtagh desired nothing more than to fly with Thorn, away from it all. Yet he was the king, and kings had responsibilities. Kings ruled—or were supposed to. Nasuada had the mind for it, not Murtagh. The last mark he left on the empire was a scribble on a piece of paper and a caravan that never reached its destination.

A cold breeze stirred the raven locks of his hair and cooled his bare skin.

"Greetings, my lady," Murtagh said to the dark skinned woman. She looked around briefly, then rushed to the jug of water on the table. She drank several mouthfuls before her mahogany eyes darted towards him.

"I'm not your lady. I am your wife."

"My queen wife."

Nasuada rotated the jug in her hands. She chased the moisture of her lips with the tongue before giving voice to words. "Titles and flattery, how very redundant."

"Cphfh," Murtagh scoffed. "A few words to make the day less bitter." Amusement did not come easy. The air was as still as his mind. Words never oozed as quickly as the water that surfaced from his bare skin.

"It is already bitter. There's nothing you can do to change that." A shiver ran through Murtagh when Nasuada banged the jug against the table. Thinner clay would have cracked for sure, but Nasuada knew her way around objects and people alike. She strode towards an oak armoire, opened its twin doors, and began to unlace her dress.

"Mate should suffice. Dragons have the right of it. Their bond holds meaning, absent tasks and expectations."

"Quite true," Murtagh said. "Do you need help with that?"

"Their females are also fierce, powerful, and capable. Not like the hens in my city that are lost without their cocks." Her relieved breasts expanded once she undid her cleavage. "I can fight. Why can't they?"

Murtagh bit his lip to stop a reply. Nasuada didn't expect one. She just wanted to prove a point, like always.

"They are a pathetic sort," she said. Her dexterous fingers now plucked the strands of silk that bound the back of her dress. "And because of that, every man and boy sees me as one of them." Her dress formed a dark velvety pool at her feet. "That's why I need you, my mate."

Murtagh almost choked on his own spit. "W-what?" He swallowed hard and coughed.

"You will meet those people you are so curious about. Stare at them the way you stare at me if you wish." She jumped out of her thin linen leggings that ended at her knees and turned towards him. "Agree with everything I say and look stupid when they speak. That should do it."

Murtagh nodded, even though the stiffness of his groin stole his mind from words. Nothing mattered to him. Nothing but the curve between her legs and the hollow crevice where her lower lips kissed each other. His member tensed with each step she took towards him. His breeches became a prison to his groin when she climbed into the bed on all fours and turned her pink depths to him. He shed them right away, and his exposed member hardened even more.

"Proceed," Nasuada said.

Murtagh took a deep breath, placed his hands around her hips, and thrust. Nasuada shivered, yet she said nothing as Murtagh grit his teeth and thrust again.

At the third one, Murtagh winced, and so did Nasuada. Her walls were parched and unwelcoming to his shriveling member. Liquid oozed from her skin, yet down there, she was as dry as a desert. Murtagh retreated from her. Soreness replaced his stiffness, and Nasuada turned her head around. Droplets of sweat beaded her brow, yet her eyes were focused and her lips tight.

"The jug. Bring it here. Also rip a piece of tablecloth and dip it into water."

Murtagh did as he was bid. He ripped a corner of linen and dipped it in the water. His fingers welcomed the moisture, same as the thirsty fabric. "We do not have to—"

"You do. An heir is more important than desire, and the people need a symbol of unity."

"Give them time—"

"To plot and scheme? These are not soldiers, Murtagh. They have no loyalty. Half the council does not even know me. Good men were given mansions and gardens and servants while shady nobles dine at my table. There is no one near me. No one that I can trust."

"You can bring them back."

"No. Councilors were picked out of necessity, not will. None advises, Murtagh. Position grants them their right to speak, not merit."

"Then discard their _advices._ Turn words into action, and see them fall from privileged position."

"You speak nonsense. The fabric now."

Murtagh moistened her lips gently, then inserted two fingers and the fabric inside her to squeeze out the water. No sound escaped Nasuada. Not even a wince. His member replaced his fleeing fingers shortly after.

"Gah," Murtagh grunted. Her meat squelched as he thrust with renewed vigor.

"Fanir and Gelreh," Nasuada said through a pant. "They were ahead of me. They spoke about Oorokhar a few days before. GAH!" Murtagh slowed his thrusts to allow her pause. "I let their words pass," she said as she caught her breath. " And now the man stands ruler over Belatona."

"I know him. He is a good man." Murtagh rammed her, his fingers squeezing soft flesh. "Selfless man. He is loyal to his people, and people are loyal to him."

"He is of empire breed. Faster." Murtagh's muscles tightened as he gripped her thighs hard. Nasuada moaned, but she stifled it with words. "It takes a pair of words. Faster. An ambition. Faster. An idea to plant the seed of betrayal." She turned towards him, her face contorted with the toll of mating. "I will not see it blossom."

"We will see to…that" Murtagh said. He slowed again, only to receive a grunt of disapproval from Nasuada. "Eragon, Arya…and I. After Saphira lays her clutch, new Riders will…emerge."

"How many?" Nasuada asked. Her drenched lower lips tightened and squeezed with excitement.

"Several," Murtagh thrust again. He pictured Saphira mating, growling and humming under the thrusts of Thorn. "Dozen." Perspiration stung his eyes. He wiped it away, took a deep breath, and thrust tersely and quickly. The heat became unbearable, and the tightness in his lower region pleaded for release. "Yet Thorn didn't…."Murtagh stopped. Nasuada said something, but her words were lost into the upcoming pleasure. The thought of mating quickened his seed, and with a final thrust, he poured his love and affection into Nasuada.

"I will take them under my command," Nasuada continued. "They will no longer rule themselves. Power feeds upon goals and ambitions. It must be kept in check before it festers and corrupts."

"The elves," Murtagh grunted. "They will not…"

"They will. They never knew what peace is. The Dragon War, this war. It's all their doing. Lengthy age breeds costly mistakes."


	3. Escape

**Sorry about the delay guys. Real life got in the way and I couldn't work on my fanfics as much as I wanted to. From now on, updates should happen more frequently. **

**This is the full version of chapter 3, so I'm going to delete that part 1 and leave this in its stead. Leave a comment or a review and tell me what you think about the story, the aspects that you want improved, and the things you may want to see added.**

Nasuada chose a tan tunic and sandy colored breeches for the escape. The material was lithe and breezy, unlike her formal dress. Men clothes were woven with purpose, not glamour in mind. Nasuada appreciated that. Once the tunic embraced her breasts and belly, she put on the cloth and leather leggings. They kept warmth better than they shed it, but Thorn's scales raked more than just fabric, and Nasuada was more accustomed to heat than scrapes.

Once her legs were engulfed by the leggings and her face shadowed by the silk overall, Nasuada turned to her pack. Several objects found their way inside its belly, including several wineskins and silver goblets.

Once it bulged with contents, Nasuada flung it across her back and stormed through the door. No farewell, no words, no nothing. She shared her body with Murtagh, and further words felt weak and awkward.

Wooden stairs protested under her weight. The hall was dark, same as the extinguished torches that lined its edges. With quick steps, Nasuada walked towards the light. A single torched, maintained by a single man.

Like unbridled wind, she ran. "My lady?" Words. Familiar words. Nasuada did not realize who said them. Her focus lay on the thoughts waging war inside her mind. They knew no victory, no defeat, and no pause. A pause….

Something touched her shoulder. The grip was light, but persistent. Nasuada shrugged it off, grabbed and twisted.

"Agghah, my lady. I did not –ah—Night sets in and you -ahhh—"

"Save your words for the very thing you guard, door keeper. That wooden lady will see them better received."

The man lowered his head in acknowledgement and left.

Nasuada sighed. Delays annoyed her. Instinct spurred her into action. And instinct also attracted the attention of a dozen townsfolk. They all looked at her, stare interrupted by timely blinks. Her throat stirred, and her tongue itched. "Dismissed," she wanted to say, but these men were not soldiers, and she was no longer a commander.

She sighed again, and turned eyes to sun baked stone. Her mansion was build right on the side of the spine, basking in the shadow of trees, leaves, flowers and vegetation that stretch along its length, and bursting into an efflorescence of green at the foot of the castle. Her eyes lingered. She always had a hard time deciding which looked better. The ramparts, serrated and uneven? The sturdy towers bearing the likeness of fabulous weapons? The wall, with its roaring dragons? Or the palace itself, nested in the middle like a prized egg? She looked and thought. Four months passed, and the decision had yet to be made.

_Not today. _Quick steps saw her past the commoner's row and onto the stone paved paths of the King's Grace. Less dust sparkled in the sun here because there were fewer boots to spur it into motion. Positions of note gave the dwellings these fancy looks. The same position also kept their owners inside. Men of modest clothes and standing walked back and forth. Most poured from the trade district. Nasuada recognized them by their bowed heads and stiff arms. Poor beaten wretches. Many were prisoners, put to purpose by her kindness. Nasuada pulled the cloth over her nose and took upon less traveled paths. Repayment would come, but, _not today._

Half of the sky froze to a stark blue when Nasuada passed through the roaring gate. Twin dragons guarded the gate, crouched and ready to leap at any intruder. Such fine claws, she ran her hand over the dragon wrist. The scales were smooth and lost little of their shape. Nasuada traced the scales up to the neck, then the horns, and all the way up on the wall, where a dozen of other stone dragons stood vigilant. Her hairs bristled, and a shiver cooled her skin. Mad as he was, Galbatorix left behind an impressive legacy.

Stone gave way to soil and grass when she stepped into the gardens. The song of birds and insects greeted her and bloomed flowers shared their scents. Nasuada chose a meandering road and ran towards the central gardens. A different tune enriched the song of the evening, pebbles singing under the pinch of her leather sandals. When a path forked, another took its place, and Nasuada had to catch her breath several times.

Time and failure were the price of discovery. Nasuada found him resting in the grass. Plants caressed his scales and the sun kissed them. Orange hues danced on the scales of ruby, obscured only when the wind breathed life into the surrounding vegetation.

Nasuada swallowed. No moisture wet her parched throat, save for a cough. Her breaths were greedy and her skin too generous with water.

Thorn growled and raised his head from the comfort of his paws. He blinked once, coal slits narrowing in the dying light.

Nasuad opened her mind and approached, strides quickened by sudden excitement. Thorn was nothing short of beautiful, with those flaming eyes and sunset-touched scales.

She stopped a short distance from the dragon and waited. The insects buzzed, the plants sang their leafy sound and the air stirred.

_Queen Nasuada,_ Thorn finally spoke in the mind language. _I didn't expect you._

_Nor did I_, she said. Or Murtagh. She ran a hand along his snout. The heat of his scales dried up the thin layer of sweat that covered her palm.

Thorn tilted his head._ Then why are you here?_

_I don't know. We'll find that out along the way._ Nasuada busied her hands with his elongated snout. One rubbed his chin while the other busied itself with the side of his jaw. _The fewer things we expect, the better. Would you agree?_

_Without the scent of a doubt. Only the sun's ascent is certain. What comes after is as fickle as the winds…._

_And the clouds they carry_, Nasuada finished for Thorn. _My husband spoke the same words a few times._

_They were not his to speak,_ Thorn brought his restless tail closer to his hind leg.

Whose then?

_He is of this world no longer, queen Nasuada. What wind brings you in my presence?_

Nasuada sighed. She had no way around it. _Wine to drink, thoughts to share. _A glimpse of movement caught her eye. The tail, for the third time. Would it ever settle? It moved constantly, and she was enticed to grip the tip more than once. _Tails to catch._

Thorn growled and pressed his snout into her chest. Nasuada coughed and scrambled for purchase as her hands scrambled for Thorn's horns.

_Grown up, and still a hatchling_, she pet and scratched at his scales._ I wish time would be kind to our race as was with yours. _Nasuada slowly pulled away, the intense warmth of his breath making her dizzy. Thorn shifted his body and invited her to join him with a raised wing. _Not here, Thorn_, the words were hard to speak. His belly looked so inviting, and her throat pleaded for moisture.

_Everything has eyes in Uru'baen, even the walls and the grass and the earth under our feet._

Thorn snorted a gust of seething air. _That's not possible._

_Trackers, Thorn. _A wry smile plastered on Nasuada's face. Thorn didn't know. He didn't know so much. _I'll tell you more about them as soon as you stretch your wings. _She gave him one final pat on the neck and stepped back.

Thorn shook his head, growled and got to his feet. His flanks rippled with the weight of his bulk as the dragon stretched its back and wings. Her eyes traced his horns, followed the serpentine neck, leaped over the spikes protruding from his spine and stopped.

_You bear no saddle_, Nasuada said.

_Leather traps warmth and hinders freedom. It is no desire of mine to wear your craft upon my back._

Nasuada ran a hand through her tangled hair. The strings huddled together like homeless on a cold day. _We'll have to make due._ Her temples began to throb as she stared at that depressingly empty space where a saddle used to rest. It was bare, maybe three feet in length and one and a half wide. And there was nothing to lend support and balance, save for a neck spike. That too, half an arm away.

"Barzul," Nasuada whispered. She flung the pack off her back, reached inside it, uncorked a wineskin, and refreshed herself with several gulps. The lukewarm liquid left a bitter presence in her throat.

_We will fly._ She decided. _Help me upon your back._

Thorn raised his head from his paw and eyed her futile attempts at using his front leg as leverage. _Murtagh rode once upon my bare back and fell several times._

_He does not share my expertise,_ Nasuada drew in a breath and resumed her attempts._ I have ridden since I was a child. Saddles are more comfortable than chairs, Thorn._ Nasuada dug her nails between the scales and gripped. The edges cut into her skin, and her balance wavered again. This time, her spine took the blunt of the fall. Thorn expressed his concern through a growl, but Nasuada pushed that curious snout away. Queens knew no setbacks and warriors no failure. She tried and failed, then tried again until those bleeding scales rested her bottom.

Her fingers stung and ached, and anger seethed within her. _Fly to one of your hunting grounds. I will see no more of the city until the sun rises._

Thorn acknowledged her request with a low growl and broke into a stride. Nasuada jerked, her legs and hands scrambling for purchase. _Slower, Thorn,_ she managed to say. The dragon turned his neck, nostrils flaring.

_That's how I took to the air when Murtagh rested on my back for the first time._

The air bit and nipped under his wings. Nasuada tightened the grip of her hands, as she did before a battle. In a way, this felt somewhat like fighting. She held something in her hands, took a certain position, and waited for the sound that led countless men to their deaths.

And then the force came. It took her in the gut, like always. The movement of the bowels threatened to spill their contents, but a deep breath put an end to that.

Nasuada shut her eyes and held onto the spike as Thorn's body angled. The arms were strong, but her legs trembled with weakness. Thorn's scales ran from under her like weeping ice, each wing beat a boulder upon fragile wall.

_Slower. Steadier. Can't hold on. Falling_. Nasuada repeated in her mind at the third of the fourth fwoooouh of Thorn's wings. The wind chilled her sweat and gave no strength in return. Was she truly a queen? The warrior who won a war? Nasuada thought of nothing but doubts. Flying was different when her hands were strong and firm. Murtagh offered her courage, words, and a waist to hang on to. Thorn gave her freedom. Why did everything turned upside down? Murtagh took her place in the small council's chamber and she took his.

His place. The place of a Rider. A needle of excitement pierced her blanked of worries. Riders had more power than a king. They had magic, a long life, and a dragon companion to share it with. Such beautiful creatures, dragons were. Nasuada feared and admired Saphira in equal measures, and envied Eragon for his blessed fate. The farmer who took off the king's head. The friend that defied her. That wretch from the dungeons.

Nasuada dared to open her eyes. She was a queen. A Rider, if one of Saphira's eggs would allow. She was….

Afraid. Fields of green and gold rushed beneath her at frightening speed. The wind growled and snarled, and Thorn's scales had already cut through the leather leggings. They probed and tried her flesh together with her balance. Nasuada pressed her teeth together. _Concentrate. Focus on Thorn. Remember the past, when you flew….flying…falling…flying. Flying sounds too much like falling._

Her legs gave in first, trailing behind her like a bifurcated tail. Her hands, cold and numb, held on. One wing beat. Two, Three. Five. Nasuada lost count before she reached ten and fell on something solid.

She was somewhere…somewhere green. Grass— no, weeds— touched her. Was she back in Uru'baen's gardens? She raised a shaky hand and touched them back. They had fur on them, or something that felt like fur.

Fwoooosh. Something stirred in the grass, but it was not the beat of a wing. Nasuada blinked and tried to stand. The weakness gave no pause, and the tremors haven't left her. Still, she did manage to sit on her bottom. She first noticed the trees. Tall, dark, and numerous. Perfect for an ambush. But one had to go through a field of wild wheat and weeds. This was where she was. Hidden in an abandoned farmland with half a wing, a hind leg, and a good portion of a tail, all scaled and ruby red – except for the wing-.

Something warm and rough slid across her shoulder. Nasuada turned around, her stiff neck protesting at the sudden movement. She was greeted by a wet tongue and a not so pleasant breath.

_Thorn,_ she whispered_. Thorn_. Nasuada dragged herself on the ground until her cherry colored cheek met the sanguine scales. You...ground…brought me to the ground. After that, she said no further words. The breath tickling her fingers was warm and inviting, more so than the scales. It was a pity she couldn't enjoy it for long. Those twitching nostrils and the scales moved beneath the reach of her fingers and under her arm. Hairs bristled on Nasuada's arm as Thorn licked the salty water oozing from her body.

The roughness made Nasuada think of untreated wood. The stings displeased her, yet the moisture quickly calmed her irritated skin. Lost in this unique feeling, Nasuada closed her eyes.

Thorn's tongue sailed past her shoulder. Nasuada wondered if a dragon felt something when touched. Her fingers gripped and scratched at some of the smaller scales, yet Thorn did not seem to react.

_Enough_, she gripped one of Thorn's horns, using it as a leverage to move her weakened body. She hugged his snout, kissed it, and eyed the dust colored pack at her side. When did it leave her back?

Nasuada frowned and unlaced the strings of her pack. They were cold and slick with dragon saliva. Nasuada dug into them, kneading and tearing at them until the pack's mouth opened. She reached into it and grabbed the first thing her fingers latched onto

_Would that I was born a dragon,_ she thought to herself and drained the wineskin of its contents.


End file.
